The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
The calling of the Muse has grown so stale,
And in the foremost lines of every tale,
Such invocations by each scribbler's penned,
That she'll no more to poets' prayers attend;
Else for her aid would I sincerely pray,
T' inspire me while I sing that glorious day,
When swift to Simon Seat's dark rocky height,
The bristly monster took his rapid flight;
Thrice to their prey the noble pack was near,
As oft he turned, and stopped their speed with fear.
Since Wharf's clear stream within the Strid was bound,
The lovely vales ne'er echoed such a sound;
Nor all the hunting of the fox and deer
Could equal this in true heroic cheer.
The hills and vales in echoing concert sung,
Till near the rocks the hunters' bows were strung;
Then was the glory of the hunting crowned,
And mastiff, bull-dog, hunter, horse, and hound.
All on an acre of the rocky hill,
Ambitious each the mighty boar to kill.
Low on the earth the savage monster sate,
And, sullen, seemed to meet his coming fate;
Then did the hounds attempt to seize his hide,
But, weary, thrice fell panting at his side.
Though better steeds for hunting never met,
The brightest bays were changed to brown with sweat;
And such had been the chase, the stoutest there
Had scarcely strength to reach him with his spear.
But brave young Clapham, of old Beamsley Hall,
Sent the first shaft, which made the monster fall.
While low was laid the tyrant of the wood,
Each hound seemed greedy to devour his blood:
But soon he rose, made frantic with his pain,
And dared his various foes to approach again;
Three hounds he seized, and each resigned his breath,
Before the mighty monster fell in death.
Young Clifford, grieved to see his fav'rites dead,
Took his bright spear, and pierced him through the head.
In death his bloody jaws were opened wide,
While the red foam was thrown on every side;
The vale of Barden now with shouting rung—
This song the harpers have for ages sung:
And in the foremost lines of every tale,
Such invocations by each scribbler's penned,
That she'll no more to poets' prayers attend;
Else for her aid would I sincerely pray,
T' inspire me while I sing that glorious day,
When swift to Simon Seat's dark rocky height,
The bristly monster took his rapid flight;
Thrice to their prey the noble pack was near,
As oft he turned, and stopped their speed with fear.
Since Wharf's clear stream within the Strid was bound,
The lovely vales ne'er echoed such a sound;
Nor all the hunting of the fox and deer
Could equal this in true heroic cheer.
The hills and vales in echoing concert sung,
Till near the rocks the hunters' bows were strung;
Then was the glory of the hunting crowned,
And mastiff, bull-dog, hunter, horse, and hound.
32
Ambitious each the mighty boar to kill.
Low on the earth the savage monster sate,
And, sullen, seemed to meet his coming fate;
Then did the hounds attempt to seize his hide,
But, weary, thrice fell panting at his side.
Though better steeds for hunting never met,
The brightest bays were changed to brown with sweat;
And such had been the chase, the stoutest there
Had scarcely strength to reach him with his spear.
But brave young Clapham, of old Beamsley Hall,
Sent the first shaft, which made the monster fall.
While low was laid the tyrant of the wood,
Each hound seemed greedy to devour his blood:
But soon he rose, made frantic with his pain,
And dared his various foes to approach again;
Three hounds he seized, and each resigned his breath,
Before the mighty monster fell in death.
Young Clifford, grieved to see his fav'rites dead,
Took his bright spear, and pierced him through the head.
In death his bloody jaws were opened wide,
While the red foam was thrown on every side;
The vale of Barden now with shouting rung—
This song the harpers have for ages sung:
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |